


Outlet

by crackinthecup



Series: Ends and Beginnings [11]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Breathplay, Character Study, Dubious Consent, M/M, POV Second Person, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23498005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: “You were tangled up like a ball of barbed wire, and you latched onto the one thing that could loosen the knots.”Melkor is in a foul mood and invites Mairon to his chambers as an outlet.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Series: Ends and Beginnings [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112774
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	Outlet

You were angry. It boiled in your veins, throbbed incandescent behind your ribcage. You couldn’t pinpoint it to one specific reason, one specific moment in time. The war was progressing slowly. The Noldor were becoming bold, spreading across your lands, colonising, _infecting_. The war meetings were becoming longer, your crown heavy as you held your head up high, old wounds reasserting themselves and hurting with each step you took, each object you touched.

Your thoughts darkened: your body turned charnel house, your best efforts turned to ash and rubble, the great stars set twinkling in the sky dropping down like an executioner’s axe and fulfilling their fatal, fated purpose. Your mood darkened to match. You found your patience slipping through your fingers like sand, your tongue harsher, your demands more pressing.

You were tangled up like a ball of barbed wire, and you latched onto the one thing that could loosen the knots.

You invited Mairon to your chambers after the war meeting. He chattered on the way there, and you listened to him in silence. The war, the rations, the forges. Truth be told, you didn’t take a lot of it in. But you did take _him_ in: he was beautiful, dressed simply in breeches and a tunic, blond hair worn unbound over his shoulders.

You wasted no time with preambles once you got there. You grabbed him and kissed him, and he opened his mouth for you, twining his tongue with yours. The feel of him against you sent a thrill of arousal straight to your cock, and that was all you needed: an anchor to ground you in the present, everything else drifting off into some dark recess of your mind as you focused on this, on him.

The feeling of power was bright and intoxicating in your veins as you gripped his hair, jerking his head aside to trail kisses down his neck. He moaned as your teeth worried at his skin, leaving florid bruises in their wake. Your body felt _yours_ again, powerful and limitless, as you used it to draw him into heights of pleasure or pain or some intermingling of the two.

You guided him to the bed, deftly undressing both him and yourself. You settled yourself to lie on top of him, bodily pressing him into the mattress and pinning him there, and without warning your hand darted to his throat and squeezed.

He made a little sound of distress against your lips, and you found yourself wanting to strip his composure from him, have him open and panting and begging for you. His fingers found your wrist and he tried to pull your hand away from his throat, but you didn’t budge, you squeezed harder still until his breath was coming out from behind his teeth in laboured wheezes.

You had wrested control from him, and it made something bright and lurid and sadistic rear its head inside of you. You could do anything you wanted to him, anything at all, and that thought went to your head like aged whiskey. You had your own little microcosm where you could take him and hurt him and fuck him into submission, this radiant, devastating being, and for a little while afterwards you would feel invincible.

Despite his protests you could feel him getting hard against you, and a savage grin ripped across your lips. You let go of his throat, barely letting him draw in a full breath before you flipped him over, none too gently.

“Please wait, my lord –” he was saying, but you didn’t want to wait, you could see no reason to wait, so you grabbed him by the nape of his neck and shoved his face into the pillows.

You slicked your cock up with practiced ease, and then you entered him in one rough thrust.

He screamed and thrashed and only succeeded in impaling himself further on your cock. You knew, you knew that it hurt when you went in without opening him up first. But you were impatient and you knew how to make up for it by angling your hips just so, ramming into his prostate on every thrust until he was delirious with pleasure beneath you.

And it worked. Soon enough he was rocking his hips back into you, meeting your thrusts, and you grinned into his hair and fucked him harder still.

He sounded wrecked, moaning hot and filthy into the pillows, saying something that might have been your name. And in that moment you would have given him anything, anything at all.

You’d fucked other people, of course; but none surrendered themselves to you like Mairon did. Despite all his pretences and his denials and his lies, he gave himself to you in these moments, pliant and boundless, and suddenly you wanted more: you wanted to take a blade and split him from groin to sternum, run your ruined fingers over his every bone, carve your name into his very heart. There was beauty in the unmaking, a corrupt sort of creation, something uniquely yours.

But you reined in that impulse, as you had so many times before, as you would continue to do. You had no need to push him so far that he shattered utterly. He was already yours; he would always be yours. Besides, in truth, you were not entirely sure if he could be broken, the core of him burning with a flame that at times seemed inextinguishable. But if anyone could break him, you knew it was you, and that knowledge was enough.

It didn’t take long for him to spill across your sheets, cock untouched, and the tightness of him as his orgasm gripped him made you spill too.

In the silence that followed you felt like all the puzzle pieces of the world had fallen back into their rightful places. The anger was gone. You were acutely aware of your heart ticking away inside your chest.

You withdrew from him, as gently as you could. You knew he would be sore.

You pulled him close, and he came to you without resistance. He was quiet, but that wasn’t unusual for him. Absent-mindedly you cupped his cheek, tracing the slant of his cheekbone with your thumb. You found wetness there; he had been crying. A slight discomfort twisted within you – you hadn’t meant to _upset_ him – but you batted it away. He would be fine; he was always fine, and there was a peace rarely felt within you, in the knowledge that he would still be there beside you in the morning.

You carefully wiped his tears away, kissing him softly on the lips when you were done.

“You’re always so loyal,” you told him, because it was true, because of all the things you’d ever wanted to say to him, this was the easiest to put into words.


End file.
